Hero of the Soviet Union Jumabaev Tashmamat
Tashmamat Jumabaev was born in 1924 in the village of Tashtak, Osh district of the Kyrgyz SSR, into a peasant family. He was Uzbek. A member of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. He completed combine harvester courses and worked at the Madin MTS. In October 1942, as an eighteen-year-old boy, he went to the front. He served as a sergeant and commander of a rifle squad.
From May 1943, he participated in the Great Patriotic War as part of the Central and Belarusian fronts.
He was wounded twice and returned to duty after recovery.
On October 30, 1943, for successfully crossing the Dnieper, firmly establishing a bridgehead, and demonstrating courage and bravery, he was awarded the title of Hero of the Soviet Union.
After the war, Tashmamat Jumabaev became an officer and continued to serve in the Soviet Army. He lived in the city of Osh, Kyrgyz SSR, and worked in the Pamir Motor Trust.
HEROIC CROSSING
If an uninformed person had looked at the banks of the Dnieper in October 1943, they would have surely thought that there was not a single living creature there — only the noise of the incoming waves and the rustle of reeds. But this was a deceptive silence. At any moment, it was ready to explode. People hiding in the coastal thickets were keenly watching each other.
Defeated at the Kursk Bulge, driven out of the Donetsk and Dnieper cities and villages, the enemy had been retreating westward for several months. Retreating, but still biting back. Propaganda was trumpeting about the "Eastern Wall." The Nazis were feverishly bringing fresh troops and equipment from the west, building fortifications on the right bank day and night.
Hitler ordered to give the Russians on the Dnieper such a battle that they would not be able to recover. And then the "valiant warriors of the Führer" would begin the offensive on Moscow...
Tashmamat Jumabaev recounts:
— And here we are — on the banks of the great Ukrainian river. Binoculars and commanders' stereoscopes carefully scanned every bush, every mound, every fold, every tuft of reeds, and everywhere — enemy soldiers' helmets, pillboxes, artillery, obstacles...
Before dawn, heavy dark clouds covered the sky, and a cold wind blew from the west. The Dnieper, quietly and calmly lapping against the shore, became agitated, and choppy waves chased each other across the water. As if frightened by the rising storm, the branches of the trees trembled slightly, and the yellowing leaves fell like rain.
Yes... The situation was complicated: under the hurricane fire of the enemy, the troops and equipment needed to cross the open, deep, and turbulent Dnieper. Only forward, there was no other way.
I lay in a shallow trench dug in the damp sand, thinking that there is nothing more terrifying than waiting, waiting for the moment of the attack, when the command to cross the river, to strike the enemy, to drive him to the very depths of hell would sound...
And while lying there, shivering from the cold and dampness, lying there, afraid to raise my head lest a stray bullet pierce it.
Memories took me back to those long minutes of waiting far from the front line. Everything from the past, everything I had experienced shone with a warm, joyful light. I remembered my native village of Tashtak, my mother, father, the MTS where I worked as a tractor driver, the endless cotton fields, the fragrant gardens...
I was drafted into the army in 1942. Seven months in the reserve regiment, and here I am — at the Central Front.
I was assigned to the 685th Rifle Regiment, operating in the area of the town of Dmitriev-Lugovsky.
I was the commander of a sapper reconnaissance group. I remember one dark night we were moving parallel to the Oryol-Kursk highway. Enemy vehicles rushed by, their headlights forcing us to press ourselves to the ground.
Everything was going well. We had entered the enemy's rear and, having mined a large section of the road, were returning through a dense forest. Just as we were about to reach the front line, a deafening explosion rang out. I realized that the mines we had laid had worked well. We reached our destination without any particular adventures, and the explosion of our mines echoed pleasantly in our ears for a good hour...
During the battle for Sevsk, I was wounded in the leg by a fragment. I had to lie in the hospital. Those were hard days. I longed to return to the front, to my comrades, to the night raids. I knew that my combat friends were carrying out important missions during those days. And I had to lie in bed. Anyone who has been in a hospital will understand my state...
Finally, having served the required medical time, I left the hospital and went to my regiment. The usual combat days flowed by. No, these days cannot be called ordinary — with each battle, with each step, we were getting closer to the Dnieper, to the river that both Ukrainians and Russians sang about, and I — an Uzbek...
We were, as they say, both morally and physically ready to cross the Dnieper. But still, for everyone, even a private soldier, the crossing is a complicated and difficult task. And I was then the commander of an anti-tank gun.
It was necessary not only to transport the gun and ammunition to the other side but also to support the infantry crossing the river with fire, continuously firing at machine guns, artillery, and mortars. If we remain silent, dozens, perhaps hundreds of our comrades will perish.
How to transport the gun? This question troubled the entire crew. Some wanted to build a wide raft, others suggested looking for a large sturdy boat from the fishermen. But none of this was suitable. It was difficult to find enough logs for a raft. The area was mostly treeless, with willows and poplars growing here and there. And there were so many troops that each little tree would have to accommodate a battalion. And crawling on a raft would be no faster than a turtle. If we loaded onto a boat, after the first shot, we would capsize and go, if not us, then our little cannon, to the bottom. And where would you find such a boat?
I thought and thought, came up with something, but then I got a reprimand from the commander.
— Why are you hesitating? Don't you want to cross to the other side?
I explained why both the raft and the boat were unsuitable. I reported my plan. I saw the commander cool down, ponder, and, as was his habit, bite his lower lip. Then he looked at me, laughed, and patted me on the shoulder.
— Well done! Report readiness!
And the plan was simple. We took two ordinary fishing boats, patched them up well, and connected them on top with a platform. Gates and wickerwork were also used. It turned out excellently: we could row from the boats, and the cannon stood firmly on the flat platform — fire accurately, don't worry.
We were ready for the crossing. Soon a command came from the division headquarters: the rifle regiment, in close cooperation with the artillery assault company, was to begin crossing the Dnieper at dawn on October 15.
I thought that during the crossing there would be a hustle, a crush, a noise. No, everything was calm and quiet. We moved at dawn when the Germans, apparently, had not yet woken up from their morning slumber!
Then the enemy woke up, and it began... Bullets were hitting the water so thickly that looking at the Dnieper, one could think it was hailing. Shells and mines raised huge columns of water. The booming echo of explosions carried over the river, bouncing off the banks. An enemy shell hit the boat ahead of us with a group of infantry... But the momentum was so great that at that moment no force could stop the fighters. Boat after boat, raft after raft, group after group crossed the Dnieper.
Then it was our crew's turn. The commander approached me. He was excited.
— Communist Tashmamat Jumabaev (I had joined the party shortly before), I believe in you and your crew.
Avenge the boat that the fascists sank before your eyes. Be brave and decisive. No mercy for the enemy!
We hugged tightly, and it seemed that each of us thought: "Will we see each other again?"
Returning to the boats, I saw my guys, my seven, who were the same age as me — eighteen or nineteen years old. They sat in the boats, at the gun, ready for a deadly encounter. "Well," I thought, "what eagles! With them, we cannot lose."
We pushed off from the shore and immediately opened fire. The sounds of our gunshots merged with the powerful sounds of gunfire from the left, right, and rear... Over the river, there was the roar of explosions, the whistling of bullets, fragments, moans, cries, curses, the creaking of oars...
But my eagles did not lose their composure. To this day, I see these guys clearly and distinctly. They acted quickly and skillfully. With each shot, the boats sank deeper into the water, the platform creaked long and mournfully. Explosions rocked our structure from side to side, interfering with accurate fire. Fragments of mines pierced the sides in several places. And the guys guided our ferry through the veil of raised water straight to the target, carefully sending shell after shell, as if there were no cold water beneath us, and around us — searing metal.
There were only a few meters left to the shore when our boats hit a sandbank. I jumped into the water and began to help the crew roll out the gun. The cold autumn water reached my waist, but no one even flinched. Under heavy machine-gun fire, we pulled the gun onto the dear shore of the Dnieper. Hooray! Half the victory was achieved: we had the gun, and our entire crew was safe.
But the enemy did not give us a chance to recover: we had barely emptied the water from our boots when enemy soldiers launched an attack. They apparently wanted to throw us into the Dnieper. Without even digging in, the crew opened fire.
I noticed how from under a small bush, which grew nearby on a hill, a machine gun rattled. It fired incessantly, not allowing us to raise our heads.
I quickly took aim. My eagles did not let me down — one shot was enough to lift the bush along with the machine gunner into the air.
And then hours went by, the count of which we all lost. Our gun fired shrapnel at the infantry, destroyed machine gun nests, and struck the infantry again... More machine guns...
We particularly excelled at hunting for machine gunners — on that day our gun scattered eighteen firing points. Moreover, we also destroyed two mortar batteries that were particularly annoying to our infantry.
The next day was even more difficult. The Nazi command, enraged that they had not been able to immediately throw our troops into the Dnieper, brought tanks and self-propelled artillery into battle. There was still no special anti-tank artillery on the right bank, and our light guns had to engage in combat with the armored monsters.
I can only say that in this unequal duel, we did not flinch. And not only did we hold our ground against the tanks, but we also destroyed two vehicles. The first one carelessly exposed its side, and our gunner hit it with a shell so successfully that it exploded its ammunition. In a second — and heavy pieces of steel flew off in all directions. It seems that in the process, they hit their own soldiers. We had no objections to that.
We first damaged the track of the second tank. It fell silent, slightly tilting. But it seems the tankers there were stubborn — they continued to fire from the gun. Then we began to pound the turret with shells, and the third shot knocked it out too.
And the infantry, the infantry... It seemed that figures in gray-green overcoats and uniforms were coming from everywhere — from every hollow, from behind every mound, bush. It looked like they had been pumped full of schnapps — with such reckless persistence they advanced on our battle lines. Several times we had to grab our automatics and carbines, fighting them off with grenades.
By evening, the Germans managed to crush the infantry lying in hastily dug trenches in front of us. There was a moment when our crew was left with the enemy, as they say, face to face. But not a single thought crossed the minds of my comrades to retreat, to leave the combat position. And how could we retreat? No, we could not yield even an inch of the liberated land to the enemy in the fall of 1943!
At night, we rested a little. The next morning, October 16, it all started again — attacks, bombings, explosions of mines and shells, the whistling of bullets, moans, thirst... One by one, my fighters fell, my friends, my brothers... But the gun lived on, and, jumping, sent shell after shell...
And then I was left alone... Nearby, some sprawled with arms outstretched, some curled up in a deathly convulsion, lay the entire crew. No, I was not alone — the gun was still alive, and there were shells left in the boxes. I dragged them closer to the gun, opened the breech, loaded a shell, fired, took another shell... I could do without aiming — the enemy soldiers were in plain sight.
I don’t remember how long this went on — a minute, an hour, two... The shells ran out. I grabbed my automatic. The magazine was empty.
The grenades had run out even earlier. That was it. Death...
The fascists were already encircling our gun from the sides, coming in from the rear. Here a few soldiers, darkened, drunk, rushed towards the gun. I lay flat among the dead comrades and froze. I was so exhausted from the battles, the death of friends, that I probably resembled the dead myself. Steps, a guttural voice grew closer and closer. I couldn't help it — I peeked from under my lashes: six enemy soldiers were walking around our firing position. I lay still, not moving, like a real corpse. The Germans examined the gun for a long time, talking about something. One of them rudely kicked me with his foot, pressed a gun to the back of my head, and shouted:
— Russian, Russian, get up!
I did not move. Another soldier approached and also began to prod me with his gun. After hitting me a few times, they returned to the gun.
I lay there, holding my breath, afraid to move accidentally. Only my ears were open — my whole life was in sounds. The fascists began to shout loudly. Then someone’s voice commanded, and they grunted. I opened one eye slightly. The Germans were rolling our gun away. I remained lying there: there was no other way. What could I do, exhausted, unarmed?
When it got dark, I, straining all my strength, crawled to the shore, where our troops were on a narrow strip. My battery mates, seeing me, gasped — apparently, I did not look particularly brave. Then I learned that even during the day, when the gun fell silent, we had already been considered dead. The commander called me, hugged me. Always stern and tough, he was excited today.
— Listen, Jumabaev, for your courage and bravery, we have nominated you and your friends for the title of Hero of the Soviet Union. You will fulfill your duty to the Motherland, your sacred duty.
I replied as required by the charter:
— Serving the Soviet Union!
And after a pause, I added:
— May I go for the gun and retrieve it?
— Go sleep first. At dawn, we will begin the attack.
I saluted and went to sleep.
In the morning, there was a battle. By evening, we not only recaptured the positions lost yesterday but also broke into the enemy's defenses.
I kept looking for my gun and finally saw it. Two fascists were fiddling with it. I crept up to them from behind so carefully and quietly that they, engrossed, did not notice me. Then I shouted: "Hands up!" You should have seen the look on the Germans' faces, how their faces twisted! It seemed they were then poking me in the back of the head with their automatics.
I sent them where they belonged. It was necessary.
My comrades arrived, and we turned the gun to face west. It worked well that day, my dear cannon: two tanks, five machine gun positions, and about one hundred and fifty dead soldiers — that was the result of the day. It was a sacred revenge for my friends.
This time, nothing could stop our advance. The Germans fled.
Soon I was called to the regiment headquarters. The commander, shaking my hand firmly, congratulated me on the highest distinction — the title of Hero of the Soviet Union.
Thus, I fought during those three days at the Dnieper cliffs. Of course, it is difficult to remember all the details, but the main thing that remains in memory, that time has not erased, happened just like this.
S. SASYKBAYEV